


Gather Me Into the Artifice of Eternity

by dangerousbeans (flyingrat42)



Category: Prometheus (2012), Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-14
Updated: 2012-06-14
Packaged: 2017-11-07 17:04:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/433428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingrat42/pseuds/dangerousbeans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Perhaps it comes down to only this, in this world or any other-- that it is fitting for an old man to spend his days surrounded by beauty."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gather Me Into the Artifice of Eternity

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sonorism](https://archiveofourown.org/works/430766) by [skazka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skazka/pseuds/skazka). 



At first, he had assured his staff that it would be temporary. _A brief getaway_ , he murmured. _You **do** want my memoirs, don’t you?_ His publisher had smiled, mollified, and his heads of research had acquiesced on the condition that (as always) he would continue to guide their efforts, even from afar. But weeks stretched into months, and months into years, the successes celebrated across the distances, glasses raised in one virtual toast after another across the video link-- and now that the first long-range space mission is away and the memoirs long since completed and filed, the frequency of communication has lessened, and the eternal questions have at last ceased to repeat. Adrian will never leave here; he has no reason to. He has all that he will ever again need.

***

There are only the two of them at Karnak. The complex, self-maintained by the thrumming machinery at its heart, needs no human input; there are other servitors, but they only activate for scheduled tasks before returning to dormancy. Veidt's practical needs are easily taken care of by either himself or his companion; over the seven years that this David has accompanied him, it ( _he_ ) has long since absorbed every nuance of his routine, even above and beyond those embedded within its core programming (a convenient side-effect of Veidt's early involvement in the project). And Veidt needs very little, these days.

Otherwise, it suits Adrian to leave David to his own devices, the better to see David’s core directive at work: his insatiable thirst for knowledge, the very animating principle of the digital golem, inscribed (so long ago, it seems) into the spiral of the android's neural cortex in Adrian’s own handwriting. The eternal curiosity has not faded over the years, merely deepened and blossomed, and to watch it in action is as captivating as it ever was. Veidt has made very clear that no question, no request is off-limits; although he reserves for himself the right not to answer, he has never used it since their arrival here. There is nothing to be afraid of; there are only the two of them, and the endless, cold emptiness without.

David scrutinizes ancient texts, producing new translations which Adrian disseminates to scholars; David endlessly absorbs, dissects and queries material from the library of art, film and music that Adrian has amassed over a lifetime. (It has become a pastime to speak only in allusions, an idle game that they can keep up for days: David’s recall is superior, but Veidt’s grasp of nuance and context still excels.) They spend time in the restored vivarium, among the (other) exotics, and Adrian watches as David cultivates new varieties of rare orchid. At times, they spar, although less and less frequently.

Although he no longer cares to watch them himself, Adrian still catches David sitting before the bank of screens, as poised and still as one of his Egyptian statues, the babble of voices ( _from miles away and years ago_ ) forming a quiet susurrus in the background. The light flickers across David’s face and his eyes are wide and attentive as always; they are perfect mirrors, reflecting everything and revealing nothing of the inner life that lies behind. Veidt wonders if this is how his human servants saw Ozymandias, once upon a time. 

David is the only creature with the ability to surprise him anymore, and for that he is grateful.

***

There are many nights when Veidt lies awake, a sickness gnawing at his core, too deep for all his meditations and mantras to touch. In his youth, _this_ would have been unthinkable: removing himself from the world for good, retreating to the mountaintop when there was always so much more to be accomplished-- more worlds, hearts and minds to conquer, purify, make whole. 

But the longevity treatments can only go so far, and he is deeply weary; and, above all, _they_ are loose in the world now, the Davids and the others, the Tovis and the Lakshmis and the Sirajs and the rest, each one one of _his_ golden children, for all that their faces may mirror the diversity of humanity-- silent watchers and helpers, and witnesses. Adrian is too perceptive not to step aside when the script demands it.

And, he reminds himself (as David comes to stand silently by his bed, as he is wont to do, unbidden, when Adrian lies sleepless) perhaps it comes down to only this, in this world or any other-- that it is fitting for an old man to spend his days surrounded by beauty. 

***

They kneel on the floor of the meditation room, facing one another, and Adrian as always seeks to empty himself, to match his inner landscape to the blinding whiteness without. Lately, he has felt as if he might be approaching the core of his stillness-- _the late ripening of his final fruit_ , in a phrase familiar from his childhood. 

The thought leads him to open his eyes, and he studies David’s face, its placid serenity only enhanced by the breeze from the air circulation loop that tousles his hair. It occurs to him that he does not know why David chooses to meditate with him-- if it is out of emulation, a sense of duty, or something other. 

It occurs to him, suddenly, that the answer does not matter.

David’s eyelids flicker open (cued, no doubt, by the slight alterations in Adrian's own pulse and breathing), and the calm gray eyes flick to him, measuring and considering. If he looked more closely he could see his own reflection. David tilts his head minutely in the gesture that they both understand as: _is everything all right?_ Veidt merely nods in the affirmative, and watches David’s eyes close again.

There is nothing more for him to say; Veidt rises, turns, and leaves the room.

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as an independent story, but [skazka](http://archiveofourown.org/users/skazka/pseuds/skazka) provided such a beautiful exploration of this pairing that I felt moved to follow it up. I only wish my prose could approach the beauty of the original.
> 
> Title taken from ["Sailing to Byzantium"](http://www.online-literature.com/frost/781/), by William Butler Yeats.


End file.
